I was reminded last night that February wasn’t all bad. There were a few ridiculous, hilarious moments that poked through the haze of daily life.
My favorite February moment was my fake date with a hockey player. OK, it wasn’t my date — and, ok, it wasn’t a date at all, but remember I am fragile and work with me. Our local minor league hockey team ran an auction to win dinner with a player. It wasn’t cheap. Your car payment is probably more than their monthly paychecks, so the winner had to buy the player’s steak dinner. And you don’t get to keep the player at the end of the night [rip off!], but you do get two glorious hours to interrogate him on all things hockey. [Squee!] I bid on a player under the guise that it would be an excellent practice date for P, who was due after a lengthy divorce. [And secretly I really wanted to break bread with a full-blooded Canadian.] When the auction made a 6’3″, 220 lb professional hockey player suddenly available, it clearly meant my plan was endorsed by God. I told P that I placed a bid in her honor. She panicked, then recovered her senses in time to ask for an additional bid on the player with the sketchiest reputation. And while I’m quite sure said sketchy player came with a bonus supply of penicillin, I told her we were sticking with my original pick. I mean, pace yourself, Woman.
P and I were both deathly ill the night of the big date. [Did I forget to mention that I’m chaperoning?] My head was stuffed with kindergarten paste and I hadn’t had color in my cheeks in weeks. P was wearing twelve layers of makeup and weird sounds kept escaping from her throat. Just to dial things up a notch, I decided to see what really does happen when you mix Magic Cough Syrup with Blue Moon beer. [Answer: You say just a little too much about your inner most hockey secrets.] We walked into the banquet room of our local old money steak house and were directed to the only player sitting alone at his table. See, the auction was actually for season ticket holders, but no one told me that when I bid. Essentially everyone in the room knew each other — except for the random girls that just walked through the door. Freakin’ details. Get you every time.
Take notice, NHL teams, this chick can pick an awesome hockey player. First of all, he was incredibly, insanely nice. Secondly, he was handsome. We’re talking NHL good looking. Like Pittsburgh Penguins good looking. [Stop. You know they are the best looking team in the NHL.] We chatted nonstop. We wanted to know all about Canada. It’s a lot like here. [Bummer.] We wanted to know about hockey fights. Typical southern hockey fans. We wanted to know who he knows in the NHL. He used to work out with Steven Stamkos of the Tampa Bay Lightning during summer breaks. We told him about our monthly hockey road trips. He was worried about our chances in Philly. [But I suspect secretly thought we were awesome.] We mentioned the hockey blogs we read. What?! Hockey blogs? Hilarious. We asked what he wanted to do after hockey. Fireman. [Awww.] He told us about playing hockey in Europe. We talked about traveling. Has he ever been to Austria? Yes. Definitely go. It was like we were trying to shove a filming of NHL36 into a two hour dinner. The only question he really had for us was: So why did you pick me? We froze. Did I tell the truth? Was I really going to look him in the eye and say, “Uh, cause you are, like, hot and you had the best Movember stache on the entire team.” Noooo, I was not! After dodging the question twice, I lamely muttered, “Seemed like a good idea.” He gave a little Canadian smirk and went back to debating goalies with P.
Amazing night. Call me, NHL. I know what I’m doing.